A Thousand Tiny Pieces
by RainingMonday
Summary: Spaghetti-O’s, scraped knees, and a doll named Droplet. Mark spends his first evening with his daughter and tries to make sense of his new role as a dad as well as the secret Addison kept from him while she pretends she has it all together as a parent.


– +*+ **A Thousand Tiny Pieces** +*+ –

Could be future, could be AU, its your choice. Song is a Thousand Tiny Pieces by Sean Hayes. It was mostly written a while ago, so Sloan Riley isn't mentioned. Enjoy.

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It isn't fair.

She got a head start. She felt every movement, every squirm of the baby in-utero. She told (other people, not him) that it felt like a fish's movements. They called her Nemo.

She heard the first cries break the tense atmosphere, she saw the baby mere seconds after she entered the world, covered in afterbirth, fists flailing wildly. She saw every sparkle in the wide blue eyes that tell of tropical oceans on cloudless days, she felt the soft cotton onesies stretching across the velvety skin of her stomach; she tied tiny, pale yellow bows in the scarlet fluff as the baby cooed.

She got every openmouthed yawn, every O of soft raspberry lips, every rise and fall of her chest, every grasp of tiny fingers.

All he gets is photos.

A miracle, she says, and he agrees, although while she is referring to her conception, he means the wide, surprised eyes following her first step and subsequent plunge back to the earth. He's thinking about the toddler racing through the golden sand, grains clinging to her bare legs and chest as her mother chases the diaper clad child. His miracle is the mound of whip cream and M&Ms on the immaculate floor of her kitchen, and the three-year-old looking up guiltily, chin sporting white fluff and fingers coated in chocolate.

It isn't fair; he wanted all of that. He wanted to cradle that little body, no bigger than a loaf of bread, and bask in the fabled unconditional love. He wanted to know every trick and habit and wipe away her tears with his large thumbs, to put her in time-out when she misbehaved so _she _wouldn't always have to be the bad guy, and then let her out thirty seconds later because her pitiful eyes were impossible to resist.

She was able to. He wasn't. He's angry. She only told him because she had to.

She only told him because Maya is attending a dance, Sam and Naomi are celebrating their anniversary, Charlotte, Cooper, and Marjorie are on vacation, Pete has the flu and Violet and Lucas are most likely in the process of catching it. Not out of any biological obligation.

That is apparently as far as her babysitting resources reach, but it has been enough for four years. And all those people know more about his daughter than him.

One phone call (was she always so cold?), a few words (had she always sounded that tired?), some heated words (did she always patronize him?), a request (how could she still need him?), and a revelation (she must be as beautiful as her mother.)

"There's something I need to tell you. I – you – we – we have a – I need you."

"You always need me, Addison."

"No, I'm speaking at this conference and I need you to watch her."

"Watch who?"

"My – _our _– daughter."

*

"Avorie?" he asks, pronouncing it as 'Avery' when he arrives at her door a few hours later.

"No," Addison snaps. "Ah-vuh-ree. Don't call my daughter Avery."

And to appease her, to be allowed a closer look at the delicate features on an elf-like face peeking through the wool skirt and black stilettos of her mother, he agrees. "Right. Sorry. Hi, Avorie."

"Avorie, sweetie, this is Mark. He's going to watch you for a few hours while Mommy works, okay? Can you say hi to Mark?"

The child's fingers are still wrapped around the hem of her mother's skirt, but she sticks a small, grinning head around, scarlet waves cascading past her shoulders, and awards Mark a shy wave. Her fuchsia jumper is gathered at the neckline and sports ruffled sleeves, he notes with a stab of painful nostalgia that the dress is Marc Jacobs. Of course Addison would not dress her daughter in anything less.

Though flawless at first glance, in his quest to memorize every possible detail about his daughter he uncovers the inescapable badges of childhood. My Little Pony band-aids decorate her legs, scabs cover her knees, and a light dusting of dirt coats her toes. She clutches a doll in one set of tanned fingers, though it is less of a doll and more of a knitted beanbag shaped like a water droplet; he wonders at the anomalous choice of toy.

"Hi," he breathes, wishing for the innate sense of fatherhood Derek demonstrates with his kids but unable to patch it together at such short notice. "Um … I like your dress."

Avorie's cheeks acquire a delicate pink flush and she ducks behind Addison's legs again, but the smile on her rosebud lips is smug. "I like your shirt," she replies softly, and although it is a simple, comfortable navy Henley, his usual Friday attire, Mark finds himself standing straighter.

"I like your doll," he responds in turn, because hey, she isn't crying or screaming or kicking, as Derek and Meredith's three boys Aaron, Parker, and Holden, have the tendency to do around him so he figures it's going well.

"His name is Droplet. Want to hold him?" He nods and she inches around Addison's picturesque legs showcased by the tantalizing skirt to tuck the doll in his large hands. He cradles the worn toy carefully, as he might a baby, and this apparently wins Avorie's favor because she takes hold of his middle and forefinger and pulls him into the house, right past an astonished Addison. He can't deny that he's pleased at her openmouthed shock.

She recovers quickly, however, and he's not surprised. "Avorie, I need to talk to Mark alone for a second," she says as they head into the sunlit, white-washed kitchen. Not a single appliance has a spot on it.

He _hates _her, loathes her, and as soon as the child flees into the living room to sit amongst her kingdom of shimmering castles, long-haired ponies, plush, smiling animals, he takes her face roughly in his hands. Her porcelain skin feels just as flawless under his fingertips.

"How could you?"

"Mark -"

"You _knew _I wanted it the first time, you _knew _that, Addison. And then when it happens again, what? You run away? In what fucking universe is that fair?" he spits; their faces inches away. The dishwasher hums in the background, an undertone of normalcy that neither of them notice.

"I … I'm sorry."

"Sorry. Right, like that does anyone any good. You're always sorry, Addison. Sorry you slept with me, sorry you used me, sorry you left me."

He hates her, but he loves her, so he lets his fingers fall away gently, sighing and turning away.

"Markie?" Avorie's interlude is at the perfect time, because he really shouldn't be near Addison at the moment, because anger is waning while love crescendos, swallowing his will and pride and other essential things. And because Addison needs a moment to collect herself, to rearrange her indifferent, sanctimonious façade.

Nobody has called him 'Markie' since Nancy Shepherd was five and he was seven.

"Wanna see my room?"

The space is mermaid themed and soft blue with a canopy bed and lavender duvet. He can't name the Disney characters that stare at him innocently from all corners (maybe he could have, if Addison had given him a chance) and the dolls and stuffed animals that spill over the soft white furniture are alien to him. Everything about the room is polished and beautiful and matching and despite the slight disorder it can only be described as adorable, a word that does not usually inhabit his vocabulary.

They have not moved from the doorway when Addison's heels announce her presence in the hall, she looks harried and anxious but puts on a smile for Avorie. "I've got to go now, baby, so be good for Mark, okay?" Avorie throws herself in Addison's arms which is apparently synonymous for agreement.

"Give her dinner between five and six, her bedtime is seven thirty. She may watch _one _movie, rated G or PG. She needs to brush her teeth and go potty before bed, and make sure you use her fruity kid toothpaste because the mint kind makes her throw up -"

"I know how to take care of kids, Addison."

"Do you?"

"I babysit for the Shepherd's (her face contorts as she realizes he means Meredith and Derek) all the time."

"Fine. Be good, you two. Don't burn down the house." And this could almost be a normal night, in a different life where she let him love her. The slam of the front door ends his melancholy musings.

*

He watches her, one foot placed in front of another and another, delicate toes curling as she skips across the floor, and decides that strawberry red is the most beautiful color in the world. He always saw redheaded babies, even when she left, even when he was with Lexie, they were always tumbling scarlet curls and crystal blue eyes.

"So, Avie…" (The nickname slips out.) "Uh, what do you want to do now?"

"We could … play dress up? I have princess dwesses now 'cause I'm a big girl."

"Yeah, okay. Um, Avorie, how old is a big girl?"

And he discovers the age of his child by four shy fingers held in front of a bashful grin.

He helps his daughter into Snow White's dress, Tinkerbell's wings, and Sleeping Beauty's shoes (hey, he's learning), all the while marveling that the tiny, pixie-like girl that grips his shoulder as she steps carefully into the costume is really his. He knew he and Addison would make beautiful children but actually seeing it is like something out of a fairytale.

They hadn't quite agreed on Mark's costume yet when Avorie became bored with dress-up and deserted him, jeweled tiara in hands, to scamper off and initiate a game of hide and seek. She is disappointed when he locates her immediately behind the coach so for the second round he blunders around the living room lit by dying sunlight and pretends he cannot see her crouching under the coffee table for five minutes.

This game continues for several minutes until he finds Avorie hiding in a kitchen cupboard, pots and pans ejected onto the surrounding tile, and finally catches a glimpse of the clock's glowing numbers. "Damn. Hey, Avie, what do you want for dinner?"

"Umm … Seafood linguine," she pipes up, grinning broadly, and saying no to those wide eyes is nigh impossible but his cooking skills are limited.

"Sorry, kid, no can do."

Disappointment clouds her face for a fraction of a second before she brightens. "Lobster pasgetti?"

"Not that either."

"Chicken Marsala?"

"Jeez, kid, who feeds you?"

The question is rhetorical, but as she can't fathom a concept like that, Avorie answers, "Out take."

"Out take? You mean take out?"

She shrugs. "Out take has lots'a good food, Markie, you should have it."

But what restaurant Addison apparently orders top Italian cuisine from he has no clue, so he ransacks her pantry and easily (they're still organized the same after all these years) locates Spaghetti-O's, which he reasons he should be able to prepare with his non-existent cooking skills.

Twenty minutes, a misleading stove, and two tiny blue plastic spoons later, they are seated at the counter each with a bowl of burnt Spaghetti-O's in front of them. Avorie makes a face at their blackened appearance but, to Mark's relief, nearly inhales the entire serving once she gets started.

"Here is Droplet's bowl," she says, handing him porcelain straight out of what he suspects is Addison's grandmother's tea set. Still, he spoons a few noodles into the ancient rose adorned dish and watches as she holds them individually up to Droplet's mouth, staining the toy's carrot orange stitching.

Avorie migrates to the living room with a haste that makes him worried for the winter wonderland of curves and mounds of Addison's powdered snow furniture. Her little sauce colored fingers somehow miss the spotless upholstery as she beckons Mark over.

"Dat's my play at pweschool," Avorie tells him, pointing at the snapshot of herself in a flowerpot costume. "I wanted to be da ladybug but Miss Tunsten said the outfit would clash with my hair. Then Mommy went in and yelled at her, but she still let Clara be the ladybug."

He smiles sympathetically and tells her that she would have been a much better ladybug than Clarisse or Claire or whoever (nobody shows up his kid), but really, all his mental faculties are captured by the other pictures on Addison's mantle. There's one of a crimson-headed baby eating sand while Addison appeared to be arguing with Naomi, he wonders who took that one (he will later learn it was Violet.)

Another features Avorie, tousle-haired but alight with excitement, on Christmas morning in pink snowflake pajamas. There are Halloweens and birthdays and what seem like ordinary days, the point is that everything is documented. Everything except him.

"Hel-_lo_! Earth to Markie!" Avorie shouts somewhere near his ear, and he rouses himself from his and the mother of his child's ever-tragic past. "Can we watcha movie?"

"Sure, kid. But don't you want dessert or something first? Surely even Addison let you have sugar?"

"It's not one of my dessert nights," Avorie admits, wringing the edge of her designer dress between her delicate fingers as she eyes him bashfully.

"Well, I'm making it one of your dessert nights."

"Wow, you can do dat? Cuz Mommy is the boss of everything," she whispers, as if sharing a forbidden secret.

"I'm the Daddy, so I get to be boss too," he decides, and yes, part of it is for revenge. Part of him wants to mess with Addison's faultless schedule, prove that she doesn't deserve the high horse and she isn't the only one who can take care of kids, even if he is a little more unorthodox.

Avorie's delighted grin warms his heart, as she scampers into the kitchen with pixie-like grace and stands on tiptoe on Addison's granite countertops to reach the top cupboard. "Mommy keeps the chocolate up there."

"Where?" He boosts her onto her shoulders instead of leaving the task of supported to her toothpick thin legs (he can just imagine Addison's face if Avorie ended up in the emergency room) and she pulls open a cupboard.

"See? This is Mommy's expensive chocolate."

"Maybe we better not touch that." He sets her down and ransacks the freezer instead, uncovering a half-hidden pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.

"I's not supposed to have that 'cause it isn't good for you." Nevertheless, she eyes the ice cream like a starving child.

"Actually, this is pretty good for you."

Avorie frowns in confusion.

"See, this is chocolate ice cream, and chocolate comes from cocoa beans. Beans are good for you, right?" She nods. "And, if we put this in a bowl, it will melt a little, so it will be like bean soup. Bean soup is good for your tummy, right?"

"You're smart, Markie," she grins as he scoops the smooth, brownie laced substance into a bowl as she eats it almost as fast as he can supply it. Later he worries that he gave her too much because her tiny stomach is ballooned out contentedly, but remembers eating quarts of ice cream when his parents used to leave him home alone (not that frozen cream was a very good substitute for parents, but he did what he could).

She selects the movie The Little Mermaid to watch and informs him the rating was changed to PG because of Ariel's seashell top. He laughs that his four-year-old is the one telling him and then hesitantly fits his arms under her armpits and lifts her onto his lap. She doesn't protest, merely sits forward eagerly as Ariel wishes to be part of that world and blocks Mark's view of the screen (not that he minds. He already has two redheads of his own.)

Avorie utters a small gasp, soft aqua eyes open wide so he turns his attention from his somehow-perfection creation back to the flatscreen TV.

"It's Ursula!" Avorie whispers, chin quivering at the sight of the evil sea witch ensnaring Ariel. "We hafta hide, Markie!" And she buries her chocolate stained face into his designer jeans, apparently so Ursula can't see her. "Will you cover Droplet's eyes?"

He wasn't made for this, he's sure, perhaps God didn't intend for him to go down the path of fatherhood. Despite father and daughter's beauty and echoing features, she is a fragile glass doll in the hands of a buffoon. Still, he places his forefinger over Droplet's knitted eyes.

The credits roll and it is past seven-thirty, but Mark and Avorie linger, enjoying the warm comfort they've woven out of strangeness. He runs his fingers through her cascade of scarlet curls, the way he used to stroke Addison's post-coital, sweat tinged waves as they both lay splayed above and below and beside the sheets. Avorie's eyelids flutter, but she seems determined to stay awake, as if she will miss some of the excitement if she falls asleep (but he suspects all she'll really miss is the impending fight).

All too soon he hears a key in the lock and heels in the foyer and as Addison steps onto the beige carpet, shedding her heels and untucking her silk blouse, Avorie jumps up with a shout "Mommy!" and flings her arms around her mother's neck.

"Hey, baby," she murmurs into her daughter's hair, but while Avorite is distracted, she hisses over her shoulder, "Mark, I told you 7:30!"

"Well, I … I just needed a little more time," he says, sounding as though he has a cold, hurt and sickness apparently synonymous in regard to his voice.

Addison ignores this. "Now she's going to be exhausted tomorrow and I'm going to have to deal with a whiny, -"

"Get a grip, Addison," he quips. "Tomorrow is Saturday, she can sleep in. And you've had her for her entire life, I have rights and if I want an extra half an hour with her …"

Addison deflates. "Fine."

"Momma, guess what? Me an' Markie had bean soup!" Avorie says from Addison's hip, and she smiles at her daughter, but her burning eyes, always a little more emerald than azure when she's angry, indicate an explosion's on the way.

"That's great, sweetie, but Mommy needs you to go and get your pajamas on, okay?" Avorie skips off willingly enough and he is left alone with the woman who has wrung so much emotion out of him over the years it's a wonder he's anything but a dried out husk.

"Thanks, Mark. I know it was short notice and everything but -"

"Don't," he says in a voice like ice.

"Don't what?" she counters.

"Don't pretend like I'm someone who doesn't matter, someone who's going to leave after tonight and forget that Avorie has a dimple on the right side but not the left and can be convinced that chocolate ice cream is healthy."

"I didn't say you could give her cho-"

"Not the point, Addison. Don't pretend you're perfect at this because we both know you're not."

They stare, at a painful impasse that is the culmination of years of hushed affection, blatant lust, and, finally, guilt-ridden pain. His arms are folded across his muscled chest, her fists are clenched, her nails digging into her palms.

She succumbs first, sinking onto an empty barstool. "Sometimes she wants cookies. Not the store bought ones, but homemade, and I'm just … just too tired to deal with it. And sometimes she has to stay at the daycare until six when other kids get to go home after preschool. And last Father's Day she bit some kid's elbow."

He suspects that she has surrendered to tears behind the hands that hide her face, but before he can offer a response; his daughter comes running back in and takes a running leap into his arms.

"Can Markie come back?" Avorie is clinging to him, tired head on his shoulder, legs clad in navy pajama pants with little smiling clouds wrapped tight around his middle. Her connection to him is plain, unmistakable, even Addison cannot deny it.

"I – yeah," but Addison addresses him instead of her child. "Avorie likes you, obviously, and … you're right. You do have rights as her father." It's as much of an apology as he's ever going to get. "Avorie, honey, I need you to go brush your teeth," Addison says, stroking her daughter's hair to rouse her.

Avorie stumbles off sleepily, fists dug deep in slumber-drowned eyes and he turns back to Addison who watches their child with a look so tender all resentment for the mother of his child melts away. "Can I … can I stay?"

It is a risky proposal, possibly with the capability to erase all progress made, but he's savoring minutes with his two favorite girls like a drowning man savors a last bit of oxygen or a parched man savors a few drops of water.

"Stay?" Addison quirks an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he shrugs, taking her fingers loosely in his as they watch the child they made tuck all of her dolls in bed, Droplet in the honorary position next to her.

"Okay. I suppose you could stay for the night …" But what she really means is _I guess you can stay for the rest of our lives _and they both know it. It was only a matter of time before all the pieces collided to form a whole.

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So, kinda fluffy and slightly pointless, but hey, it's a Maddison kid and Maddison in general, who are made of win. Tell me what you thought :)  
Updates to other stories coming soon, btw, since it's Thanksgiving break!

Here is the link to a picture of Avorie's toy Droplet, just take out the spaces  
http://www .blablakids .com/Online-Shopping/Boogaloos/DOLLS-Boogaloos-Droplet


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